


We Move in Measures

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, No Spoilers, fluffy fluff fluff, just dancing and shy flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:44:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2736434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josephine had been halfway finished with an exceptionally boring letter when the Inquisitor had appeared in the doorway like a ghost—lips parted, eyes heavy, smile uncertain. <i>You're still awake. May I come in? </i>(Or: Stolen moments, dancing lessons, and a very careful courtship.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Move in Measures

**Author's Note:**

> Title/chapter title stolen from Joni Mitchell's 'Sweet Sucker Dance.' I still haven't made it very far in DAI, but Josie is so utterly charming that I couldn't help myself! She wouldn't leave my head and infiltrated my writing warm-up...and then all of a sudden it went from 300 words to 3000. I love the idea of Josie romanced by a human noble - so many opportunities for cute formal court flirting. Smitten with this pairing already.

Everyone says the Inquisitor is impossible to predict. That's what they whisper when they think she isn't listening. _Volatile. A loose cannon. No one ever knows what she's thinking._ The claim may as well be true: Evelyn Trevelyan is a complicated woman in a complicated position, and perhaps her decisions—kept close to her chest, always masked with grim humor—often appear impulsive, even unfounded. And so the people gossip and an image is formed: The Inquisitor is unpredictable. It's as simple as that.

Except...it isn't simple at all. At first Josephine believed the rumors, but she's slowly started to discover that the Inquisitor is a woman of routine, not mystery. Take her nights, for example. They are always the same, without exception, and she leaves behind clear signs of her presence—if you know what to look for: A clear night, one torch missing from the gate, the creak of a wooden door hours later. By now, Josephine has grown accustomed to the pattern. She has become a part of it.

The first night had been mere chance. Josephine would never have left her door propped open, not on purpose, but she'd spent all day listening to the shrill complaints of a Ferelden noble (the man insisted upon reciting the names of his eighteen cats with bewildering regularity) and by the end of the day, there was no more room left in her mind for mundane details like doors. She had been halfway finished with an exceptionally boring letter when the Inquisitor had appeared in the open doorway like a ghost—lips parted, eyes heavy, smile uncertain. _You're still awake. May I come in?_

Since then, the open door has been nothing but intentional.

Sometimes it is hours before she arrives; sometimes it is not quite so long. (And always, it is _too_ long.) But her arrival is as inevitable as the night itself. Josephine has learned to recognize—to relish—every sound, as familiar as the notes of her favorite aria: The soft click of her boots, the silent moment of hesitation, and then the staccato rap of her knuckles against the open door.

Tonight is no different. At the sound of a throat clearing behind her, Josephine sets down her quill, allows herself a brief, secret smile, and then turns to face her guest.

“Good evening. I see you're out late once again.”

“Josephine.” Evelyn speaks her name fondly, warmly; only a hint of exhaustion creeps in around the edges. “Are you busy?”

By now, Evelyn's question is as familiar as it is empty. Josephine is _always_ busy. She has letters to compose, meetings to schedule, a world to try and save. They both know it; they both ignore it. “I am sure that I can spare a moment or two—for you.” The words slip out unbidden and Josephine's breath catches. Was that too much? Too far?

But the Inquisitor hardly seems to notice. She pushes the door shut behind her, slumps against it, and lets out a deep sigh. “Maker, I'm beat. I don't know how you're still awake and functioning at this hour.”

“I have more important things to do than sleep...just as you have more important things to do than wander around alone at night.”  _And push yourself to the brink of exhaustion night after night,_ Josephine thinks, her stomach twisting. But she keeps her worries to herself, as she always does.

Evelyn grimaces and tugs off her gloves, dropping them on the floor with a muted thump of leather on wood. Her knife belt follows with a clang. “I needed peace and quiet. I never get a chance to be alone. There's always someone jabbering in my ear about something I have to do.”

Josephine lifts a brow. “Surely there are better options than traipsing through the wilderness.”

“I'll let you know when I find one.”

“And yet here you are, letting me jabber in your ear.”

“You're different. Sometimes I think you keep me sane.” Evelyn crosses the room to lean against the windowsill, staring out into the darkness. Her voice shifts into something softer, something vulnerable; it sends goosebumps racing down Josephine's spine. “I don't have to be anyone else when I'm with you.”

Josephine closes her eyes and draws a deep, steadying breath. She is never like this—never so uncertain, so foolish. But Evelyn makes her head spin. Ever since that first night, when the Inquisitor stumbled into her room with that shy, hopeful smile, Josephine has felt the ground crumbling beneath her. "Thank you," she says, unable to manage anything more.

“You remind me of home, I think," Evelyn continues. She shrugs. "Maybe that's why everything is so easy with you.”

“Do you miss home, then?” The question is impulsive, a step beyond the formalities Josephine always tries so hard to limit herself to. When Evelyn turns, gaze puzzled, she pauses to collect herself and tries again: “I only mean—I know this life must be different than the one you are accustomed to. Everything changed so suddenly. It cannot be easy to adjust.”

“No, it's not,” Evelyn admits, her eyes clouding over with an unspoken memory. “But...it can't be easy for you either, can it? This is a far cry from Antiva.”

Josephine focuses on a spot over her shoulder and tries her hardest not to look at Evelyn. She always stares for a moment too long, always comes too close to giving herself away. “Ah, but we are talking about you _._ ”

“Everyone is  _always_ talking about me.” She smiles that disarming crooked smile—Josephine spies it out of the corner of her eye despite her best efforts—and shakes her head. “The Inquisitor this, the Herald that...it's dreadful. Maybe that's what I miss about home. Being ignored.”

“Surely you were not ignored? A woman like you, in Antiva—” Josephine catches herself and changes direction. “That is, women who can fight as well as they can dance are highly respected in Antiva. I imagine the Free Marches are the same.”

“Ah, but I can't dance. Looks like I'm useless after all. I suppose you can?”

“Certainly. Of course, I cannot fight."

Evelyn crinkles her nose. "Fighting is  _easy_."

"So is dancing," Josephine teases. The two are not dissimilar; she has often stood and watched Evelyn train through her window, taking in the elegance of her motions, the smooth movements of her lithe limbs, and thought that the Inquisitor would be a lovely sight on the ballroom floor. But the thought has always felt shamefully foolish. 

“My mother would have preferred you for a daughter.” Evelyn smiles again, though it does not quite reach her eyes this time. “Still, it might not hurt to know how to use a weapon. A hidden blade or two could be handy in your line of work.”

“I have never needed one. You, on the other hand, would not be amiss in learning a few steps.”

Evelyn laughs at the idea. “So I can dance away from the hordes of angry demons? I like that plan. They'll never see it coming.”

“So you can dance with your benefactors.” Josephine folds her hands behind her back and steels herself for a less-than-positive reaction. “There are many wealthy men and women who would enjoy the chance to meet the Inquisitor herself. I have begun to organize a formal ball—a way to thank those aiding our cause.”

“No. You're joking. Tell me you're joking.”

“I _could_ tell you that, but it would be a lie.”

Evelyn looks as if she might argue, but then she thinks better of it—they have never had an argument that Josephine has not won—and her hanging jaw clamps shut. After a long moment, she finds her voice again, sounding only slightly indignant: “Fine. Compromise. I'll let you teach me how to dance if you let me teach you how to protect yourself.”

Josephine waves a hand, dismissing the suggestion. “I do not need to know—”

“Please,” Evelyn interrupts, the humor disappearing from her voice. “Please. After what happened, with Lord Whatshisname, I would be...more at ease if I knew you were prepared in the future. Just in case."

Josephine hesitates, taken aback. She hadn't realized that Evelyn knew about the furious nobleman who had drawn his sword on her behind closed doors, the one she had only barely been able to talk down. She had told no one but Leliana of the fraught encounter; how had Evelyn found out? “I—if you insist, I suppose that is a fair trade.”

The concession comes easily, in part because Evelyn looks so achingly lovely with worry written across her face, her eyes dark and her bottom lip caught between her teeth—and in part because Josephine had expected hours of contention over the dancing lessons. She had not expected that she would be the one giving the lessons, of course...but Josephine is nothing if not willing to adapt. She pushes up from her chair and steps around her desk, eliminating the last remaining barrier between them. “As long as the dancing lessons come first. They start tonight."

"Why do _I_ have to go first?"

"Because I say so. And that is that."

Evelyn makes a show of shaking her head and grumbling, but she acquiesces nonetheless, the hint of a smile flickering in her eyes. “Fine. I'm warning you, though, I'll make a terrible student."

“We will see about that before long. Your hand, please.” It suddenly occurs to Josephine that this may not be a good idea—not while she's still trying to convince herself that she can remain professional and detached. But it's too late now. Evelyn's fingers close around hers, long and calloused and graceful, and Josephine can't stop herself from inhaling sharply at the too-brief thrill of Evelyn's thumb brushing across her wrist.

Evelyn interrupts her dangerously racing thoughts just in time. “Am I going to lead? Oh, I'm sure the noblemen will _love_ that.”

“You are here to watch me and learn. Stop complaining and put your hand on my waist.” Josephine tries to sound calm—slightly less flustered, at the very least—but she overcompensates, and the command comes out too sharp.

Evelyn responds to the brusque order with a grin and a mumbled _yes, ma'am._ She settles her right hand on Josephine's waist and they step into each other, their hips clumsily bumping. “Like this?”

Pressed this close, Josephine comes to the startling realization that Evelyn is taller than she had thought. She finds herself forced to tip her head back to meet Evelyn's eyes—as blue as the Antivan seas, as deep and dark as drowning—and she takes a shaky breath to steady herself. “Ah...yes, precisely like that.”

“I'm about to embarrass myself terribly, you know.”

“Trust me, I know.” Josephine rests her left hand on Evelyn's shoulder. On selfish impulse, she lets herself tangle her fingers in the rough fabric of her tunic. She clears her throat. “Are you ready?”

“We don't have any music.”

“Use your imagination.”

For a moment, the Inquisitor looks as if she is about to argue—contrary to a fault, as always. And then she smiles. “May I have this dance, Lady Montilyet?”

Evelyn speaks with all the charm and decorum of the court, and Josephine slips into the familiar role easily, almost joyfully. “I would be delighted, Lady Trevelyan.”

And so the dance begins. What Evelyn lacks in talent, she makes up for with enthusiasm. She moves with the natural grace of a fighter and the reckless abandon of someone who has never danced a proper step in her life. Josephine does her best to guide her carefully across the floor, chanting instructions—“ _one_ -two-three, _back-_ side-close, do try not to stomp on my feet”—but Evelyn only half-listens. Instead she improvises: Missing steps, twisting in circles that nearly send them both crashing to the floor, and ignoring every critique directed her way. Her laughter is music enough, wild and intoxicating; soon, Josephine forgets that she should be teaching and lets Evelyn spin her across the room. She holds Josephine closer than a partner should, their fingers tangled together, their arms around one another. But Josephine would never dare correct her. They weave and twirl around chairs and books, transforming the chamber into a ballroom. 

"A lovely evening, Lady Montilyet," Evelyn declares. She takes a step backwards and narrowly avoids crashing into an end table; only her tight grip on Josephine keeps her on her feet.

Josephine laughs, breathless and delighted. She feels lightheaded—giddy, happier than she has felt in months. "I'm afraid that we are closer to dawn than evening, my dear Lady Trevelyan." 

"Well, then I stand corrected. A lovely dawn it is."

Before long, gradually enough that Josephine hardly notices, Evelyn slows. Perhaps the shift is purposeful, perhaps she has simply lost the rhythm; either way, Josephine is grateful for the change. The moment is too sacred to waste. She knows she ought to remind her of the steps, but she can't quite bring herself to speak. Not with Evelyn's arm snug about her waist; not with their bodies held so close together. She tilts her head, presses into the crook of Evelyn's neck, and breathes her in. She smells like wood smoke and snow, like the forest she roams on these restless nights—like peace. And so they turn in a slow circle, swaying more than dancing now, until the dark chamber around them fades away.

It is all too easy for Josephine to let herself drift into her memories, to close her eyes and imagine the familiar sights and sounds of home. The heady perfume of sweet wine, the giddy laughter mingling with the music, and the _colors—_ the crimson and the gold and the sharp cerulean of the sea through wide-open windows. She remembers late nights spent twirling on the dance floor until she was dizzy. She remembers the rush of whispering into the ears of nobles and merchants, making fortunes rise and fall with a well-placed word. She remembers courtships and careful loves, but not a one that made her heart race quite like—

And then Evelyn's voice breaks into her thoughts, quiet, as if she is loathe to break the silence. “How am I doing?”

“Not very well,” Josephine admits. At the sight of Evelyn's crestfallen face, she offers up a reassuring lie: “But you could be worse. Really.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, letting that preposterous claim sink in, before they both dissolve into laughter. “I can't believe you would lie to me like that,” the Inquisitor says, her voice honey-sweet and bright with amusement. Her hands settle on Josephine's hips, keeping her close. “I see right through you, you know.”

“I can be honest, if you prefer. You are a splendid dance partner...and an appalling dancer in every conceivable way.”

“Maybe another lesson would help,” Evelyn says, looking hopeful. “Another night?”

“Another night,” Josephine agrees, trying not to sound overeager. Another night spent in Evelyn's arms, spinning, laughing, every last care forgotten—the thought sends a spark of anticipation and longing coursing through her veins. Peace is so very hard to come by these days, so infinitely valuable.

“On that note...I suppose I should leave you to your work." When Josephine nods her reluctant assent, Evelyn sighs and finally releases her. She takes a step back, appearing uncertain. "Goodnight, then?"

"Goodnight," Josephine echoes. The word hangs heavy and ashen in her mouth.

Evelyn takes a half-step away, pauses, and then turns back, catching Josephine by the waist with one long stride. She kisses Josephine's cheek, quick and chaste, and then presses another lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. Barely a kiss, barely a _touch—_ but it is enough. Josephine's eyes flicker shut, she lifts a hand—and then Evelyn pulls away, red-cheeked, wide-eyed, and stammering out the vaguest of explanations: “It's traditional, isn't it? A kiss after a dance?"

“Is that—” Josephine clears her throat and tries desperately to remember how to form sentences. She only barely succeeds. "—ah, is that...a tradition from the Free Marches?"

"Well, it...if it's not, it ought to be." Evelyn ducks her head, looking sheepish and somewhat dazed. Her cheeks are still pink, but there is a slow courage to her smile. "I really should leave. I know you're busy."

Josephine takes a deep breath and returns the smile, a careful courage of her own creeping over her. She thinks her heart might burst, might leap out of her chest. It is all she can do to keep her hands neatly folded in front of her. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

“Goodnight, Lady Trevelyan.”

“Goodnight, Lady Montilyet.”

Long after Evelyn has left, long after the halls have gone silent, Josephine's door remains open. 

**Author's Note:**

> Adding a quick end note just to say that, fyi, I'm always accepting prompts (any pairing, fluff, smut...anything!) I haven't gotten any in a while so I just wanted to let everyone know that that was a thing, if there's anything you'd like filled...especially now that Inquisition is out - I'm itching to write more! You could comment one here or send one to me at goodforsix.tumblr.com. (But first! Time to go write chapter two - Josie owes Evelyn a round of fighting lessons.)


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